Chinks in the Armor
by criminalxxxmindsxxxfreak
Summary: It wasn't until Sherlock found the drugs that he realized that Spencer wasn't as strong as he'd always imagined and maybe they were more alike than he wanted to believe. T for minor drug use. Ties in with other fics but can be read alone. Oneshot.


**Title: **Chinks in the Armor

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **Drug use

**A/N: **So, it's been a while since I wrote one of these… Haven't been suffering from nearly as much writer's block I suppose. But now, when I *should* be working on chapter 9 of "Everything Burns" all I can think about is Sherlock and Reid. *sigh*

Once again, ties in with my other stories "An Even Match", "Interesting Friends" and "Casual Deductions" but can be read alone. And, in case you haven't realized, these oneshots are tragically out of order. I do have an idea for a multi-chapter fic but that will definitely have to wait until I finish a couple of stories…

And, unfortunately, *still* no John in this one. However, I am going to write another soon (hopefully) that will definitely feature John.

Anyway, hope you enjoy and please review!

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Quantico, Virginia, USA

March 29, 2007

* * *

Dr. Spencer Reid had had a long week. The team had been in San Francisco for several days working an arson case and he was certainly glad to be back. The case had thankfully not required too much of his assistance. He hadn't been thinking clearly lately, not after what had happened with Tobias in Georgia such a short time ago.

He twisted the knob on the door and frowned, automatically reaching for his key and then realizing that the door wasn't locked. He was sure that he'd locked it before leaving. Biting his lip, he rested one hand on his gun and eased his way into the apartment, looking around carefully, hating the way his entire body seemed to be shaking with fear. His mind kept flashing back to those nights with Hankel and he simply couldn't seem to get the fear to entirely leave his system.

"You know, if I were a real burglar, you'd be dead or unconscious by now,"

A familiar, haughty voice made the young agent's heart skip and he whirled around, yanking his gun out of the holster and pointing right in the face of one Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock didn't even blink and Reid sighed, closing his eyes and heading into the living room with Sherlock on his heels.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, not even bothering to wonder just how his friend had gotten into his apartment. It seemed like most of Sherlock's visits started with him breaking and entering.

He sank down onto the couch and rubbed his tired eyes, silently wishing he were alone. He really didn't feel like dealing with Sherlock at the moment. But of course, Sherlock didn't seem to care. He sat down next to Reid and suddenly there was something heavy in his lap.

He removed his hands from his eyes and stared down at the small black bag, eyes wide, throat tight. Something very similar to shame washed over him and he shoved the bag away, turning to stare into Sherlock's icy blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated, hoping Sherlock would take the hint and let it go. He really, really didn't want to talk about this, especially with Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned forward and picked up the bag. It was a large bag, ultimately nondescript aside from the Star Wars drawing of Darth Vader on the front. Sherlock would have normally said something about that to Spencer, but not now. Maybe later, once he'd figured this out.

"You do realize that deflecting doesn't actually make the issue go away, don't you?"

Spencer pressed his lips together tightly and looked away from Sherlock, "I don't want to talk about it," he said.

"Of course you don't," Sherlock said, "Not only is it illegal, but it proves that you're a hypocrite. Two years ago you told me –"

"I know what I said!" Spencer snapped and Sherlock raised a brow, unzipping the bag now and lifting a small vial, twisting it between long fingers.

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered under his breath, "What is this? Not cocaine…"

"No, it's –" the young agent caught himself before he could answer and just shook his head again, sighing heavily. "Sherlock, please, don't do this. Not now. I don't need to hear this, especially not from you."

Of course, Sherlock Holmes was not a man who easily let anything go, especially not when he hadn't puzzled out the answer yet. "Why did you start using?" he asked, more to himself really. It annoyed Reid to no end that Sherlock could probably get the answers without him supplying a single one of them.

"You stopped returning my emails a couple of months ago; I called your friend, Agent Morgan…. He said it was personal. Which, of course, means that something happened at work," Sherlock's eyes lifted from the small vial and turned to look at Spencer.

"What happened that you wouldn't tell me about? You tell me about all your cases, except, apparently, this one, which lead you to throw out every condescending argument you ever tossed at me about drug use and –"

"Stop it!" Spencer nearly shouted, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "I didn't tell you because I don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It."

"Why wouldn't you want to talk about it though? The first person you called after you shot Philip Dowd was me, you called me before you brought your mother to your office, you –"

"Sherlock!" Spencer sat up again, aggravated scrubbing at his eyes, trying to push out the headache he could feel lingering there, trying to grab hold. He took a deep breath and turned to look at his friend again, this time slightly less annoyed than he had been a moment ago.

"It's a long story, okay? And I really… just don't want to talk about it."

Sherlock frowned, still studying him carefully. "Is that why you're using? You want to pretend it didn't happen? To make it go away? Spencer, you do know that no matter how high you get you _will _have to come back down eventually and it'll only be that much worse?"

Spencer nodded, "I know, Sherlock, but… right now, I'd rather it be temporarily forgotten than have the memory nagging at the back of my mind every single second."

There was a long pause and Spencer thought that maybe Sherlock was finished badgering him, but then the felt the other man's fingers wrap around his, pressing the vial into his hands. He frowned and glanced back up at Sherlock, confusion in his eyes.

"It's funny," Sherlock said slowly, "I never thought I'd be on the other side of one these conversations… I always figured you were stronger than me in that area, at least."

A small smile twisted his lips and Spencer almost smiled back, except that he still felt horrible, like his insides had been knotted up. He'd felt that way for a while, honestly.

"I suppose you were right though, when you said people are only as strong as their armor," Sherlock continued while digging around in the bag and pulling out the syringe and a needle, holding them both out to his friend.

When Spencer just stared at him, hazel eyes wide with confusion, Sherlock's normal smirk replaced the smile.

"What did you expect? A lecture? I'm hardly the right person for some big, personal intervention. Not exactly one of my areas of expertise," and then there was that oddly out of place smile again. "If this is how you wish to cope with it, I won't stop you."

Sherlock stood, giving the younger man one last, somber and – dare he even think it – sympathetic look before heading toward the guest bedroom where he'd already unpacked his things. Spencer swallowed roughly and stared down at the needle and vial and found himself incredibly conflicted, more so than usual. He didn't know whether he was grateful for Sherlock's lack of judgment, or disappointed.

In the end, he supposed it didn't matter because no matter how badly he wanted to quit, or how right Sherlock was, Spencer simply wasn't ready to stop. He hoped he would be one day, but today was not that day and he knew it as he wrapped the tourniquet around his arm and filled the syringe, slipping the needle under the skin of his arm and letting his mind drift casually away from the nightmares and the problems of the day.

Sherlock stood in the hall, watching Spencer and sighing. He'd never realized how much it must've bothered Spencer to see him strung out and high, completely unrepentant for the pain he was causing the tiny hand full of (or, more accurately, the _two_) people who gave a damn about his well-being.

He slipped his cellphone out of his pocket and stared down at it. There were plenty of numbers in the phone, including one for the DI he'd been working with for nearly a year now. He skipped over that number and went to the one directly below it, "Mycroft".

Sighing and hating to admit defeat, he sent the text and let his eyes wander back to Spencer on the couch. If he ever did anything for the one friend he had in the world, he would fix this mess. Whatever the mess was.

I may need your assistance. Spencer is in trouble. SH

My flight leaves in half an hour. How much damage? MH

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**End**

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**A/N: **I feel like I *could* turn this into a whole multi-chapter fic but I won't. Partly because I don't have the time and partly because… I'm not entirely sure how I go from here to there, you know?

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this! And please let me know what you think! This was a bit more heavy than the previous fics, but the idea has been bugging me for a bit.

Please review!


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